


Crooked Kind

by doctor__idiot



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Pre-Series, Weechesters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:05:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3514712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean couldn’t remember the name of the town they were staying in.<br/> <i>(Prompt: a run-down neighborhood, a 13-year-old, and a pink handbag.)</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Crooked Kind

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a school assignment. The assignment was to write a short story, incorporating a run-down neighborhood, a 13-year-old, and a pink handbag.  
> I saw the opportunity to write Weechesters and I took it.
> 
> Disclaimer: Nothing's mine but the idea. Unbeta'd.
> 
> Title is a Radical Face song.

Dean couldn’t remember the name of the town they were staying in.

Last week’s had been Greenville, Illinois, the week before that Checotah, Oklahoma.

This time, he had been too tired to stay awake long enough to know anything other than that they were somewhere in the middle of nowhere, Iowa.  
As far as his dad had told him. They could be all the way over in Maine for all he knew. None of it made much of a difference to him.

Another cheap motel, another flashing neon sign that read “Vacancy”, so bright it burned itself into Dean’s retina for the next three hours.

Sam had been stretched out in the backseat of the old Chevy, reading for most of the drive until he had fallen asleep a few miles back. Dean had ridden shotgun, tapping out the rhythm to Metallica on the dashboard and trying to drown out his dad singing off-key.

John Winchester had left in the afternoon to complete the job they had come there for. Dean hadn’t even tried to convince his dad to take him with him. Sam was still too young to go and someone had to stay with him.  
Dean had simply nodded when John had given him instruction. _Don’t open the door, don’t go out, watch out for Sammy._

“Dean?”

Sam’s sleepy voice brought him from his stupor of exhaustion, his mind absent but unable to actually rest. He was sure he knew which words were coming and he feared them.

“I’m hungry.”

Dean sighed, took a deep breath before putting on a smile and turning around to his little brother who looked at him with all the innocence of a nine-year-old and Dean’s gut clenched. He was almost out of money and the last few quarters he did have he needed for the phone in case of an emergency. 

He fished through his bag, hoping to find a lone candy bar in between his socks and T-shirts but it was a futile attempt and he knew it. He had eaten his last one when they had last stopped for gas.

John had said he would be back before midnight but Dean wouldn’t bet on it.

He flopped down on the bed by the window, next to his cross-legged brother. “I can go out and get something to eat,” he said tentatively, “if you promise to stay here and not move. You understand?”

Sam nodded eagerly and made a point of crawling under the blanket, pulling it up to his chin. 

Dean ruffled his brother’s too-long hair, the familiar gesture helping him to calm his nerves and turn his smile into the real thing.

“I’ll be back in an hour tops. Don’t —”

“Let anyone it, lock the door, stay where I am. I know, Dee. I’m not a baby,” Sam griped from underneath his fort of blankets and pillows.

Dean grinned. “’Course not, Sammy.” 

He slipped into his shoes and opened the door. “Dad took the keys, so I’ll knock like I showed you, okay? Do you remember our knock?” he asks with a look back.

“I remember,” Sam replied but his nose was already buried in his book again and he didn’t seem to be paying much attention.

With a sigh, Dean stepped out and waited till he heard Sam lock the door from the inside before he made his way across the parking lot.

Their motel was situated on the outskirts of a small town and the houses lining the street leading to the town center were run-down, the cars parked out front old and rusty. It was roughly around 8 PM and the night was chilly and wet. No one was out on the streets aside from a runner dashing past Dean and a man walking his dog on the opposite sidewalk.

Dean rolled down the sleeves of his sweatshirt and started walking towards the lights of the busier parts of the town. 

He stopped outside a diner that was brightly lit, half of the tables occupied. Dean stepped inside.  
Instantly, the constant murmur of voices filled his ear and it was heaven compared to the silent street outside and the quiet motel room with only his baby brother and the crappy TV to keep him company.

“You ordering something, kid?” the man behind the counter asked him.

Dean quickly shook his head. “No, m’just waiting for someone.”

The man shrugged and went to the back of the diner to the table of five elderly men.

Dean’s eyes were drawn to a woman occupying a booth that was meant for two. She was hunched over her cheese burger special, her pink coat messily folded beside her, her handbag right next to her feet and just as pink. It had fallen over and some of its content had spilled onto the floor without her having noticed. 

Dean spotted keys, a pen, and a few dollar bills. It was too easy and he hesitated. 

Making sure no one was standing next to him, he walked past her table and made himself trip over his own shoes. His reflexes kicked in and he didn’t even have to pretend to scramble for something to hold on to, knocking the salt shaker off the table.

“Sorry,” he hurried to say and dropped to his knees, grabbing the salt shaker with his left while quickly reaching for the dollar bills with his right and stuffing them into his pocket. 

He straightened and put the shaker back on the table. “Sorry,” he muttered again.

“That’s okay, dear.” The woman smiled at him, a little drop of ketchup smeared across her cheek.

Dean swallowed against the lump of guilt in his throat and he reminded himself, _Necessary evil_. When he turned around to go, someone grabbed his arm. 

“Not so fast, son.” The man from behind the counter had suddenly appeared beside him and Dean froze, fighting against his instinct to struggle against the man’s hold.

“What’s up?” he made himself say and he was relieved when he didn’t sound as nervous as he felt.

“What’ve we got here?” the man asks and reached into Dean’s pocket. Dean made himself stay absolutely still. 

When the woman’s gaze fell on the money, her eyes widened almost unnoticeably. 

Dean clenched his fists. “What do you want with my money?” he asked and jutted his chin out in defiance, goosebumps down the nape of his neck. 

“You mean the money you just stole from this lady?” the man corrected, his grip only growing tighter. Dean’s fingertips grew numb.

The woman wiped her hands on her napkin and picked up her handbag, looking inside. Then she looked at Dean. After a few seconds that stretched on forever, she said, “That’s not my money.”

Dean could only just stop himself from whipping his head around in astonishment. He could not stop himself from staring at her, however.

The man appeared thrown as well. “Ma’am, I saw him take it from your bag.”

She shook her head. “While I’m grateful for your concern, that’s not possible. I don’t carry any cash with me.” She took out a credit card and held it up, explained, “More convenient.”

“I see,” the man said and Dean couldn’t figure out his tone. Maybe he had caught on, maybe he hadn’t. With one last look at Dean, he let go of his arm and returned to his work, muttering something inaudible.

Dean was still rooted to the spot. He looked at the woman, knowing he must look like a fish with his mouth opening and closing silently.

“I…”

The woman went back to her meal as if a 13-year-old had not just taken her money and she had not just let him get away with it. 

Dean breathed a “Thank you” before he turned on his heels and didn’t look back as he sprinted out the door and further down the street until he reached a small supermarket that was just about to close. He bought sandwiches and candy bars for him and Sam, threw in some mints and chewing gun, and still had money left over. He hesitated for a second before he grabbed some cereal for breakfast in the morning, too — in case John stayed out all the night after all.

Walking back to the motel, he actually enjoyed the chill of the night. His cheeks were still flushed from running and the adrenaline.

When he didn’t saw the ‘67 Impala in the motel parking lot, he breathed a sigh of relief.

Sam opened the door on Dean’s knock and yelped with joy when he saw the food. Dean smiled, his stomach finally unwinding, and he handed his brother one of the sandwiches. 

They sat on the bed and snarfed down their food in silence. 

Suddenly, Sam stopped eating half-way through his meal. “Dad doesn’t like it when we get crumbs all over everything.”

Dean answered around his sandwich. “I know.” And grinned. More crumbs fell onto the mattress. 

Sam giggled and fell into Dean’s side. He stayed there until they had both finished eating.


End file.
